


I Just Can't Face It

by EconHomework



Series: Beatles Holiday Fics [5]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Cuddles, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Older, Insecurities, Light Angst, M/M, good parenting, some tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EconHomework/pseuds/EconHomework
Summary: When John and Paul bring their family up to Friar Park to celebrate George's birthday, George can't figure out why seeing Julian and Heather makes him feel unhappy, even guilty. He's 28 -- shouldn't he be ready to have children of his own?
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: Beatles Holiday Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076249
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	I Just Can't Face It

**Author's Note:**

> It was George's birthday yesterday, so here's a fic that's a bit more balanced in terms of McLennon and Starrison! We have family fluff with John and Paul and then some partner fluff (and a bit of angst) with George and Ringo. Julian continues to be pure and Heather continues to be small and involved :)

It was raining, pouring really, not that that was unusual for an English February. Outside was awash with marbled skies and puddles, but the parlor room at Friar Park seemed like a whole world away. Hues of orange and gold, creamy whites and worn browns surrounded six cone-hatted figures seated in a cozy array around the fireplace. A plate with the remains of a homemade cake lay on the coffee table, just off to the side, and a tired but cheerful string of streamers spanned from either side of the brick chimney. 

“So, do you feel old yet?” John asked, reaching for his glass of brandy and almost dislodging his orange hat in the process.

“No older than any of you, I suppose,” George hummed in response. 

Birthdays never felt terrifically official to him. Just another day in the calendar, another date in the flow of time. Besides, he didn’t really know if today was his birthday at all; it very easily could have been yesterday, just before midnight. Ringo had gently jostled him awake at 11:50 so they could be sure to catch the true marker of the event regardless of which side of 12 it was on. 

“Well that’s good. We’re relying on you to support us in our old age.” Paul winked from his seat in an armchair, which provided him a dual view of his children and his conversation partners. Said children were sprawled on the rug, party hats askew, off in the imaginary world of Paddington Bear. 

“Eight months, Paul,” George sighed, readjusting his cone headwear. “Your youth will expire when mine does.” 

“Well mine goes out before any of yours, so I guess that means I’ll be getting retirement benefits while I watch you three struggle through the crisis of your declining capabilities,” Ringo put in, pretending to kick back. 

“Isn’t the older one supposed to be looking out for their younger counterparts?” George quipped, raising his eyebrows. 

“Hmm, well for you I suppose I can make an exception, but only because it’s your birthday.” Ringo slipped an arm around George and pulled him closer, leaning over to deliver a kiss. George sighed softly, getting lost almost immediately. It was chaste, naturally — there were guests — but Ringo could kiss all his thoughts away in a moment.

“Dada! Heather isn’t sharing!” Julian’s voice interrupted both the kiss and the contentment. All adult eyes focused in on him, sitting in front of the hearth with an open picture book and a desperate look on his face. 

“Have you reminded her to share?” Paul asked calmly. 

“Yeah, I said please and asked nicely, too, like you and Daddy said,” Julian explained. 

“And is it your turn to have Paddington?” John spoke, leaning forward and gently rubbing Paul’s back, likely without even realizing it. 

_A duo in everything_ , George mused. 

“I think so,” Julian said slowly. “I think I was supposed to have him a bit ago, but I let her have him still.” 

“That was very generous of you, baby,” John commended. He turned his attention to Heather, who had Paddington locked in a death grip that would likely have caused any live bear of that size to pass out within minutes. “Heather, it sounds like it’s time to let Jules have Paddington, yeah?” 

“Nooo!” Heather broke into what could very easily be considered a wail. 

_Well that escalated quickly,_ George thought. Julian apparently thought so, too, because he abandoned his campaign for Paddington and clambered onto the couch. Ringo hoisted him up and began playfully messing with his purple hat. Julian laughed, a perfect opposite to what Heather was still doing.

“Hey, it’s alright sweetheart,” Paul soothed her. He stood up out of the armchair and walked over to the rapidly devolving situation on the rug. “It’s good to share. You’ll get Paddington back in a little bit.”

Heather continued crying, hugging the bear against her chest with such force that John physically winced. Paddington’s real life counterpart would have been more than a little dead by now.

“Is something else making you sad?” Paul leaned his ear closer.

Heather mumbled a string of words and noises completely undecipherable to George, but to his surprise, Paul just nodded along. It seemed like he actually understood, too, because when Heather was finished with her ramblings, Paul looked to John, who was now crouching down on the rug as well. George felt a sudden urge to get up. To move. To do something other than sit on the couch. 

“We brought Fritz, right?” Paul directed his question at John.

“Yeah, in her overnight bag. Still in the boot, though,” John said. 

Heather began crying again, dissolving into a puddle of deflated energy. It seemed that more was wrong than just the lack of “Fritz.”

“I think it might be bedtime, huh?” Paul looked at his watch. It was getting on to half 7, more than past when Heather was put down for the evening. Being away for the night had disrupted the normal routine. 

When Heather burst into more tears at the word “bedtime,” Paul scooped her into his arms and stood up, swaying gently from side to side in an effort to subdue her sobs. Her hat fell to the floor in a symbolic motion of her downward spiral.

“I’d say that’s a ‘yes’ to bedtime, then?” John rose, planted a kiss on Heather’s head, and smoothed her blond hair. A gene from the mother’s side. 

“Yeah, it’s getting a bit late for them,” Paul sighed. “I should have been watching the clock.” 

“You’re fine love,” John reassured. “I forgot, too. I’ll pop out and grab the bag. Don’t miss me too much.” 

“I always miss you.” Paul pecked John’s lips before they parted. For a moment, Heather was cradled directly between them, loved equally and fully by each. George’s stomach twisted at the sight. Not from disgust, not from jealousy. Almost like… sadness? Again, he felt compelled to _do_ something.

“Can I help with anything?” George abruptly asked, surprising himself with the question. He hardly ever did characteristically parental activities with his “niece” or “nephew”. He taught Julian ukulele, he assisted Heather in the catch and release of butterflies, he read to them when asked. But he never helped feed them or get them dressed or anything like that. He was more of a loving spectator in those areas. 

“Oh, sure, that’d be lovely.” Paul nodded. He seemed a bit surprised as well. “Jules, it’s time for bed for you, too.” 

“But Dada, I’m playing with Uncle Ring-oh,” Julian protested. “He’s teaching me how to drum.” 

“Very good! What do you say you pick it up again in the morning?” 

“Please Dada…” Julian trailed off, a hopeful tone running all through his words. 

“You dad said it’s time for bed, good sir!” Ringo verbally stepped in to help. “I can teach you tomorrow over pancakes.”

Julian laughed at Ringo's nickname for him, and again George felt something twist again. When Julian asked Ringo “That’s a promise?” the feeling only deepened. Ringo was so good with kids. He could interact with them on their own level perfectly.

“You have my word, my liege,” Ringo said seriously, making Julian giggle again. “Your dad and Uncle Geo are gonna take you upstairs now, alright?” 

It seemed more than alright, as Julian sprung off Ringo’s lap, grabbed George’s hand, and began dragging him toward the doorway. George stumbled after him, avoiding lips on the carpet. 

“Careful there, baby, don’t make Uncle George fall over,” Paul cautioned from behind them. 

“I won’t!” Julian called over his small shoulder, almost running into the banister at the bottom of the stairs in the process. 

Miraculously, George made it up the steps, down the first hallway, and into the main guest bedroom without injuring himself or the child below him. _How have John and Paul not ended up all covered with bruises?_

In the room, Julian relinquished his hold on Goerge’s hand and made a beeline for his bag. George practically sighed in relief — he had no idea whatsoever on how to put a child to bed. At another time, he might have felt embarrassed that a three-year-old was showing him up, but it wasn’t something to complain about now. 

“Made it safely, I see.” Paul walked into the bedroom, Heather now quiet in his arms. Another skill George realized he didn’t possess: calming a child. He was 28 now; shouldn’t he know how to do this? And if not from his friends’ children, then from his own? _Shouldn’t I have kids by now?_

“Hazza?” 

“Hmm, what?” George registered Paul looking at him with the same calm and kindness that he’d shown Heather, though in a less fatherly way. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.” George refocused on Julian, who was pulling out his pyjamas.

When he unrolled them, something fell out and bounced onto the ground. George stooped to pick it up and was suddenly face to face with a stuffed panda. It was a bit worn about the edges and one of the ears appeared to have some dried saliva, but he recognized it nonetheless. When he and Ringo had been allowed to visit hospital the day after Julian was born, they’d brought the panda with them. George had picked it out with thought, of course, but he hadn’t expected it to be Julian’s toy of choice. Now here it was, well-loved and packed into his things for an overnight. 

“It’s Charles!” Julian exclaimed. His hair looked just like John’s in the glow of the bedside lamps. His eyes, too, were John’s, though more open and earnest. He was probably every parent’s dream: well-behaved, joyful, bright. So why did he make George feel on the verge of tears?

“Charles, huh?” George asked, handing the panda off to Julian. 

“Yeah! He’s the same age as me!” Julian hugged the bear softly to his chest, not at all like Heather’s vice grip. 

“Do you know why that is?” 

“‘Cause I got him when I was born.”

“Do you know who gave him to you?” 

“Dada and Daddy?” Julian said, though it was more of a question. He didn’t know where Charles was from. He’d just always been there.

“Charles came from Uncle George, baby,” Paul supplied. He set Heather down in the old fashioned wooden crib and then crouched down by George and Julian. 

“You gave me Charles?” Julian asked. His eyes widened a bit. 

“Yeah, the day after you were born I came to give him to you,” George explained. 

“Oh,” Julian murmured. He looked down at Charles, then up at George. “Do you want him back?” 

“Oh! No, he’s yours, Julian,” George spoke hurriedly. “I gave him to you. He belongs to you now.”

“Okay.” Julian gave a small smile. “I like him a lot.”

“I’m glad you do. Looks like you take very good care of him. He’s a fine bear.” 

“Thank you,” Julian said shyly. “You can give him a kiss, if you want.” 

The offer caught George off-guard. He wouldn’t have asked to give Charles a goodnight kiss, but it didn’t seem like something he should refuse, either. He quickly touched his lips to Charle’s forehead, avoiding the drool. Then, on some kind of instinct, he did the same with Julian, too. That was something good to do with kids, right? He felt in over his head.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stood up somewhat disjointedly, shifting his weight a bit. “Uh, goodnight everyone. Julian, Heather.” 

“Goodnight Uncle Gorge!” Julian enthusiastically hugged his legs, making his mispronunciation all the more forgivable. 

“Can you say goodnight, Heather?” Paul encouraged. 

“Goonight!” Heather managed, missing the d but getting the idea across. 

“See you down there in a bit, Hazza.” Paul patted George on the shoulder before turning his attention to his children. 

His and John’s children. John wasn’t always easily connected to that topic. George remembered when John first talked about him and Paul wanting a kid. George had been surprised — John had never seemed the type. But Paul wanted one (at least) and John loved him enough and trusted their relationship enough that he eventually came to want one, too. And now John was coming up the stairs, carrying a small bag in his hand, not looking remotely peeved or begrudging. He seemed cheerful, if anything. 

“Helping Paul with our flock, Hazza?” He grinned. 

“Oh, yeah.” George shoved his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t do much.”

“Well, much appreciated! We’ll be down in a bit, birthday boy. Give you two some alone time.” John nudged George suggestively, then slipped past him up the last flight of steps and toward the guest bedroom. Laughter trickled out the door and into the hallway. George practically bolted down the stairs as if the sound was chasing him, mocking him, tripping him further into his guilt. _If John had children with Paul, why can’t I bring myself to do the same with Ringo?_

His mood only lowered when he arrived back in the parlor. The room seemed empty without the small voices and laughter of Julian and Heather. And after John and Paul left tomorrow morning, there would be silence of that kind for weeks, probably. 

“You alright, love?” Ringo asked as George plopped onto the couch with a sigh. 

“Just tired, I think,” George fibbed. 

“Taking after Julian and Heather like that,” Ringo teased. 

“Maybe it’s my old age.” 

“I’ve always said you were an old soul.” 

“That you have. Good thing you’re older in years, so we match.” 

“Sounds like the perfect beginning to a love story, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Hmm,” George pretended to consider. “I guess so. Only if the older one has beautiful eyes.” 

Ringo closed then opened his eyes with dramatic flare. “How’s that?” 

“I’d say you pass.” Goodness, George could get lost in those eyes as much as a kiss. Bright blue and incredibly kind, just as genuine as when George really began to look in them with something other than surprise that they weren’t brown. 

Paul had told him that one of the first ways he knew he had feelings for John was the way he felt when looking into his eyes. It must be so nice for Paul to see those eyes not only in John, but also in Julian. A reminder of the life they’d built together. 

And a reminder to George of what he hadn’t built with Ringo. Reflexively, he curled up against Ringo and mumbled into his sweater:

“I love you, Ritchie.”

“I love you, too, Geo.” Ringo pulled George closer. “You sure you’re alright? Did you have a good birthday?” 

George nodded. 

“I’m here for you always. Even if you’re all grown up now.” The smile was evident in Ringo’s voice. 

They talked lightly, sometimes not talking at all, just resting in each other’s company, until John and Paul came down. Then a few more drinks were had, a guitar or two was broken out, and memories of George’s past birthdays were shared around the circle. A good number of laughs were had over recollections of celebrating in the Bahamas during the filming of Help! as well as the 30,000 cards he’d received the year prior. 

As the evening wore on and more stories were recalled, George’s mood improved. It was nice to sit and remember, back when things were simpler, though in different ways. Just the four of them figuring out fame and music and life together. 

“You don’t still have that birthday card Ringo gave you in ‘64, do you?” John asked, now sporting two party hats in a style akin to cat ears. 

“We didn’t give cards, did we?” Paul looked at John, confused. 

“No, but Ringo’s wasn’t from _him,_ was it?” John grinned devilishly.

“Oh God, not this again.” Ringo buried his face in his hands. “I was quite young and full of hormones, okay?” 

“I don’t know if I’d classify 24 as ‘quite young,’ mate.” John sipped his brandy. 

“Well there were a whole lot of emotions in me, alright?” Ringo defended, leaning back into the couch. “I was trying to figure out why.”

“That’s not a half bad lyric bit, Rich.” George grabbed a paper and pen from under the coffee table and scribbled the sentence fragments down. 

“Ahem,” John cleared his throat. “Would you do us the honor of answering our query?” 

“Hmm?” George looked up. 

“Do you still have the birthday letter ‘Ringo’ gave you? From 1964. You know the one.” 

“The one he didn’t sign that sort of confessed his feelings for me?” 

“No, the other one from ‘Ringo’ from 1964. Of course that one!” 

“Yeah, I have it. I’d kept it and a couple other ones cause they had good lines I wanted to use for lyrics. Haven’t put ‘em all to good use yet, though. But anyhow, I brought Ritchie’s out of the file when he finally told me it was from him. ” 

“God, you can tease me until the end of time, then,” Ringo groaned. 

“When you told me you’d written it, I thought it was sweet,” George reassured. “You know I don’t tease you about it.”

“That makes one of us,” John smirked. 

“You wrote some pretty sappy love letters to Paul, too, y’know!” Ringo countered. “‘I can’t truly account for the time we’ve spent apart not because it shouldn’t be told but because I have no way to mark the time without you near me.’” 

“Alright, I think that’s quite enough poetry for tonight, don’t you?” John shot up from his chair, almost spilling his glass. The rest of them dissolved into laughter, cackling as John’s cheeks flushed an uncommon color. It was like the nights they’d spent in the house just outside London. Those had been a good three years. Living and learning and working together. 

Recovering from his side-splitting convulsions, Paul wiped his eyes and hurried to John’s aid. “I wrote some pretty sappy ones back. And I loved reading every word of yours.” 

“See? Someone appreciates me!” John huffed. 

“Oh come off it, we all appreciate you,” Ringo chuckled. “Just giving you some of your own.” 

“I suppose I deserve it, too,” John admitted. “It might really be enough poetry for tonight, though. Jules tends to wake up early in new places if the car ride hasn’t been too long.” 

And just like that, all those stomach twisting feelings were back. 

George tried to hide his somber sensation as the four of them tidied up the parlor. They cleared away the cake and broke up the fire, which was already burning low, before filing up the stairs. 

“Goodnight, you two,” Ringo whispered to John and Paul as they slipped into the guest bedroom. 

“Night Rings, night Hazza,” Paul called softly back. “Happy birthday, mate!” 

“They say it’s your birthday,” John joked, clapping George gently on the shoulder. “Don’t be too loud, alright?”

George opened his mouth to protest — John’s jokes were always cheeky enough that he felt obligated to — but John was already gone and Ringo was leading him away down the hall. 

“Ready for some good old fashioned shut-eye? Gotta get rest now that you're a senior citizen.” 

Swallowing the anxiety in his throat, George nodded. “Might as well.”

“Geo…” Ringo stopped in the hallway and held him gently by the shoulders. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

_No, no I’m not alright. I’m not alright because here I am, a 28-year-old man who can’t do a thing with children and there you are, having wanted them for years. I’m not alright because I can’t help but feel selfish for not giving you the family you’ve always wanted. Just because I’m too scared._

“Yeah, I’m alright.” George forced a smile. “Long day of partying. You know us with that rockstar lifestyle.” 

“Guess we better get you into bed then, sleepyhead.” Ringo seemed unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue yet.

Normally they washed up in the bathroom together before bed, brushing teeth and passing a comb or two through each other’s hair, both shoulder length. There was usually a compliment from George about Ringo’s beard, and usually one came back remarking that George looked “like a new-age church Jesus.”

But tonight Ringo found himself on his own. When he padded back into their bedroom, George was sitting on the bed, staring at some unfocused point on the wall. His fingers moved fluidly over each other, picking at loose cuticles. Clothed in his pyjamas, he looked ready to sleep. Looked like he needed some, too, Ringo thought. 

“Bathroom is open if you want to use it, love.” 

“Right, thank you,” George said. He sounded far away. 

“Are you glad Paul and John could come?” Ringo tried again, this time sitting beside George. 

“Yeah, it was nice.” 

“Good to see Heather and Julian, too, isn’t it?” Ringo prompted. He’d been expecting a monotone, unconnected comment in return. Instead, he was met with a sudden torrent of tears. “George! Love, what’s the matter? Are you hurt? Oh God, what’s wrong?” 

George merely shook his head and curled up on the bedspread. His body shook with silent sobs. 

“Geo, please, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you ill?” Ringo desperately ran a hand across George’s back and simultaneously placed his other on George’s forehead, checking for a fever. “George, talk to me, please!”

“I-I’m sorry,” he choked out. 

“For what? George, what on earth?”

“God, I’m so sorry Ritchie! I love you so much!” George clenched his eyes shut as if in pain. 

“I know you do, and I love you, too. Incredibly. You’re my gorgeous guitarist.” Ringo assured, but the old nickname didn’t seem to help. If anything, George was crying harder now. “Geo, you don’t have anything to be sorry for, I promise!” 

_Don’t I, though?_

“You, you’re so wonderful to me, Rich. I want to give you the same back but I can’t and I’m so sorry! I’m sorry…” 

“You give me everything I need,” Ringo murmured, lying down somewhat awkwardly so he could enclose George against his chest. “I love you dearly for it.” 

“But I don’t give you everything you _want_ and I’m sorry! I just can’t and I love you so much but I—”

“Geo, shh, take some deep breaths for me, alright? We’re okay. You’re okay.” 

George shook his head again, this time more vigorously. “It’s not okay! I should be able to, Ritchie! I’m 28! I wish I could face it but I can’t and it’s not fair to you!”

“Is this about it being your birthday?”

George stayed silent, but he didn’t shake his head. 

“Darling, just because you’re suddenly older on paper doesn’t mean things magically fix themselves. You don’t have to conquer all your fears now that you’re 28. You know how scared I still am of germs.” 

“But I shouldn’t be scared of it!”

“If it’s making you this upset then I think you have every right to be scared of it.” Ringo wrapped his arms a little tighter, keeping George close. 

“It’s not fair to you, though!” George repeated. His voice was urgent but a bit quieter now. The tears were slowing.

“This isn’t about me. And besides, we can’t help our fears.” Ringo placed a kiss behind George’s ear. It was a soft touch, just enough to be felt. It was where Ringo always kissed him when they fell asleep, when he walked up from behind on tiptoe, when George awoke from a nightmare. Something in it was innately calming, nurturing, as if all of Ringo’s love and care was transferred in that one action. George felt himself coming down.

They lay in silence for some time, Ringo holding George against his chest, George matching Ringo’s breathing. Rain trickled down the window panes, adding a layer to their closeness. The bedside clock counted the minutes, but they all melted together in a soothing stretch of early midnight. 

When enough time had passed, Ringo squeezed George ever so gently. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“O-Okay,” George whispered. 

“Should I ask questions or let you talk?” 

“... I can do it, I think.” George took a shaky breath as he intertwined their fingers. Then, nervously, he began. “I just, well, having Julian and Heather here. It’s nice. I love them both. I do. And John and Paul are so good with them. … And so are you.” 

Ringo waited patiently for George to continue.

“And I just, I remember when before we were together and you always said you wanted kids. And then when John told me that Paul wanted a kid and even though John was nervous he did it because he loved Paul and them and what they had and he knew how much Paul… how much Paul…” George clasped Ringo’s hand tighter as he gathered himself. The next words were barely audible. “He knew how much Paul wanted a family and he loved him so much he wanted to give him that.”

George turned himself over, disentangling his and Ringo’s limbs so they could face each other. Tears were rolling down his cheeks again, making his dark eyes glisten with melancholy. Ringo brought a finger up to wipe them away while George took a calming breath.

“And I just can’t help thinking about how I’m older now than John was then but I still can’t give you the same thing you want. I still can’t give you a family.” 

“Oh, Geo…” 

“I’m so sorry, Rich.” George’s eyes welled up again. 

“George, look at me.” Ringo cupped George’s chin and tilted his face so their eyes met. “You’re my whole _world_. You’re all I’ll ever need.”

“But you always said you wanted kids…”

“And I still do. But that doesn’t make what I have with you any less wonderful. I don’t want children because I’m dissatisfied with my life. I’ve always wanted them because I knew they’d add to what I have.” 

“I guess John, I mean, John wasn’t sure he wanted them but he loved Paul enough to have them. What does that mean for me with you?” 

“George, do you really think John Lennon would do anything he wasn’t sure about? He’s as stubborn as me mum.” 

George smiled weakly. “She’s not that bad.”

“He didn’t agree to have kids with Paul because he ‘loved him enough.’ They started a family because they were both ready. Julian didn’t come along for several years after Paul first brought it up, remember?” 

“... Yeah, I guess so.”

“And age doesn’t have anything to do with this. You’re 28 and you’re not ready to be a father? Well, John’s 30 and he’s not ready to be a driver.”

A real laugh came from George at that. “He’s not the best, is he?” 

“No, he isn’t,” Ringo chuckled. “But when he’s ready to try, I’m sure he’ll be just fine. And when you’re ready to be a father, you’ll be wonderful.”

“Do you really think so?” George looked doubtful.

“I know you will.” Ringo tucked a strand of George’s hair behind his ear. 

A beat or two passed.

“Ritchie?” 

“Yes, love?” 

“What if I’m never ready to have kids?” George bit his lip, fearing the answer.

“Then I will love you just as much. Even more for making the right decision for yourself. And I’ll be with you still. Always.” 

“I love you, Richard Starkey,” George murmured, burying his face in Ringo’s shoulder. 

“And I love you, George Harrison.” Ringo cradled the back of George’s head, moving his fingers in circles at the nape of his neck. “Happy Birthday, my love.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've listened to a number of interviews from George before he was married in which he talked about not "seeing myself being a father yet. ... I don't think I want [kids] for meself right now," which is kind of the inspiration behind this particular fic. More George (and Ringo!) content in mid-March with the pre-series. 
> 
> Give a kudos if you liked it and leave a comment to let me know what you thought!


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